


A Sweet Daydream

by annabeth_at_the_helm



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Adultery, Cheating, Emotional Infidelity, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, Korean War, M/M, because they're both in the army, mention of felching, piercintyre - Freeform, risky homosexual relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24541741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_at_the_helm/pseuds/annabeth_at_the_helm
Summary: "So, Trap. How are things with Margie?" His studied indifference was not fooling anyone, however.written for "happy infidelity" as a bonus fill for Banned Together Bingo.
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, Margie Cutler/"Trapper" John McIntyre (mentioned), Trapper John McIntyre/Louise McIntyre (mentioned)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	A Sweet Daydream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadesofhades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofhades/gifts).



Hawkeye threw a little red ball up into the air, caught it on its way down, and said, oh so casually,

"So, Trap. How are things with Margie?" His studied indifference was not fooling anyone, however. Hawkeye was miffed that she'd chosen Trapper over him, and he couldn't seem to leave it alone, even when they'd been in surgery for hours—Hawkeye would look up at Trapper, eyes so blue above his surgical mask, and ask him questions about her.

If Trapper didn't know any better, he'd think Hawkeye was fishing for lurid details of his assignation with Margie Cutler, she of the exceptionally beautiful face and glorious blue eyes. Much like _another_ pair of blue eyes Trapper liked to fall into, like a sweet daydream.

Trapper flipped the page in the medical journal he was reading. It had been part of a care package sent to him by his wife—cookies and toilet paper being the other two parts.

"Things're great," he said, whistling a jaunty little tune under his breath as Hawkeye began to fling the little red ball up and down more forcefully. "You'll bust the ceiling, Hawk."

"I will not, I am a superb catch—" The ball went flying, and crashed into Frank's bunk, bouncing and knocking the picture of his mother down, where the glass in the frame cracked. "Shit," Hawkeye said, dissolving into giggles. Trapper tossed the medical journal aside.

"Whaddya really wanna know, Hawk?" he asked. "Are you askin' if I miss ya?"

"Hard to miss someone whose farts smell like yours, Trap." Hawkeye rolled onto his side, leaning on his elbow.

"Aw, now that's sweet," Trapper said. "You even like my _gas_."

Hawkeye sighed and got up. "Honestly, I wouldn't miss you on the basis of one of your little trysts."

This was different than saying "affairs," and they both knew it; Trapper didn't care enough about the nurses he went with _or_ the woman he'd married to be faithful to any of them. Trapper really only sought to be truthful with Hawkeye, and that wasn't something he should admit to—that he couldn't be faithful to anyone besides Hawkeye, who didn't _want_ his fidelity, only his cock and his discretion.

Trapper threw his legs over the side of the bed, stalking over to Hawkeye where he'd gone to retrieve the ball. Hawkeye was just setting the picture of Frank's mother back on the shelf, and then Trapper had him caged by the canvas, hands on either side of his face.

He swooped in and stole a kiss, first one, then settled over Hawkeye's mouth for a deeper, more thorough examination. The ball hit the floor and bounced several times as Hawkeye's hands came up and threaded through Trapper's curls, tugging them as they kissed.

When Trapper let him go, Hawkeye's eyes were glazed, his lips especially pink, his breathing short and ragged. Trapper extricated his hair from Hawkeye's fingers and stepped back.

"You might as well ask me about Nurse Kellye," he said, nonchalantly. Hawkeye rubbed his lips with his forefinger, snappy comebacks apparently knocked out of his brain by Trapper's kisses. He had that effect on women—and Hawkeye, and he was stupidly proud of this talent.

"You—" Hawkeye shook his head. "Where do you find the time, Trap?" he asked.

"It's difficult, I can tell ya," Trapper said, returning to his bunk and scrounging around until he found the cookies Louise had sent him along with the medical journal. His wife was sweet—but dull—and he'd lost interest in her long before he'd even left for Korea, so it didn't even prick his conscience to eat her cookies, or to share them with the nurses he wooed.

"Does it ever bother you," Hawkeye mused, "that the nurses don't know about your wife?" Hawkeye was apparently taking note of Trapper eating a homemade cookie.

"It's all over camp," Trapper said, munching contentedly. "The nurses must know."

"Not Margie," Hawkeye said slyly, and Trapper looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. He grabbed a broken piece of cookie and threw it at Hawkeye.

"She's gotta know," he said, even as Hawkeye rummaged through his blanket and sheet to find the cookie, which he popped into his mouth. Trapper knew that if he kissed Hawkeye again, he wouldn't be able to tell how he tasted over the commonality of the cookies they'd both consumed. "It ain't like I'm keepin' it a secret."

"I don't think so, Trap," Hawkeye replied through a mouthful of cookie. "Margie slapped one of the other lieutenants for putting the moves on her when she knew he was married."

"Hawk, if it's a big deal to you, it's no big deal to me, I'll cut 'er loose. Ya can have 'er." He finished the final cookie. "Besides, seems like ya want me all to yourself."

"Well," Hawkeye said, studying Frank's bunk as if he didn't care at all about their conversation, "if it doesn't bother you to cheat on your wife, it doesn't bother me either."

"Then doesn't that settle it? When's Frank get off post-op?" Trapper asked, wiping cookie crumbs from his face, then his cot.

Hawkeye checked his watch. "Not for another two hours."

"Then get over here, doctor. I need a check up."

By the time Hawkeye had made it to Trapper's bunk, he was wearing only his olive drab army t-shirt, and his white, pasty legs were long but skinny as they settled astride Trapper. He unbuckled and unbuttoned Trapper, pulled his cock free of his army-issue briefs, then lifted the hem of his t-shirt. Tugging it to the side, and using his other hand, he grasped Trapper's thick, hard column and guided it towards himself. He plunged downward moments later, and they both startled at the feel of it, as Hawkeye's bony ass came to rest against Trapper's pelvis, Hawkeye's palm flat against Trapper's ribs.

This was _theirs_ , a simple yet profound joining of their bodies, and as they moved together—as one, as if fused by their connection where Trapper disappeared into Hawkeye—Trapper could feel his worries swanning away, could feel only the huffs of Hawkeye's breath on his shoulder and the clenching of Hawkeye's hole around him.

Hawkeye's muscles fluttered, then seized; Trapper's breath left him in a grunt as Hawkeye squeezed around him. It was over too fast, too soon; all at once Hawkeye was spilling across his belly, rocking almost fretfully back and forth on Trapper, jostling them both. Trapper grabbed his hips—also bony and pasty white—and held him still as he jerked his own body upwards, then down and up, over and over till one final thrust into that heat and strength, and he was pouring out his own orgasm into the secrets of Hawkeye's body—this metaphor for the secret they held between them, as dark, close, and hot as Hawkeye felt when Trapper sank into him.

Hawkeye fell silent on top of him, gazing down with an unreadable expression on his face, though Trapper couldn't bring himself to feel anything but contentment as he held Hawkeye in place, still impaled on his cock, his reason apparently disordered along with his body and his sex-tousled hair.

"Time to get up and off, honey," Trapper said, and patted Hawkeye's flank firmly. No good telling him that fucking him had such a profound effect on Trapper. No sense in telling him things he could lord over Trapper, even though he'd never do it seriously. But Hawkeye's sense of humor was sometimes like a blade, and if you weren't careful, he ran you through with it.

Hawkeye was sluggish as he pulled free of Trapper, cock sliding from his hole with a squelch. Trapper caught just a glimpse as Hawkeye tossed his leg over to get up; he was puffy and gaping open a little, and all at once, that sight made Trapper's heart skitter in his chest. He wanted to throw Hawkeye down on his bunk and push his knees up and apart and bury his face in that spot, to lick and taste and eat the come from Hawkeye's ass—though he never had, and he wouldn't, because he didn't think it would be welcome. Hawkeye sometimes held himself aloof from Trapper in ways he didn't with women, nurses or otherwise.

Trapper had never been able to figure out why that was, but he suspected that trying to eat him out like he might a woman would meet with a sardonically raised eyebrow and an example of that lethal wit. Trapper had no desire to be skewered by it, so he let it go… even if he wondered if Hawkeye would be more satisfying than the cookies his wife had sent him.

Hawkeye was sponging come out of his ass with a towel, possibly _Frank's_ towel, and very carefully not looking at Trapper.

"What?" Trapper asked, feeling oddly self-conscious. He didn't know why. Hawkeye had never been so quiet after doing this before. "No sarcastic remarks about how I went off like a misfired gun?"

"Are you happy, Trap?" Hawkeye asked, hurling the befouled towel onto Frank's bunk. Trapper stared at it a minute—so it _was_ Frank's towel—before turning his gaze back to Hawkeye, who was observing him like Trapper was a piece of gut he needed to resect, all focus and determination.

"Sure, I'm happy as I can be, stuck in this arsehole of the world," Trapper said, wondering where this was going, what it was leading up to. "Why?"

"With your wife, two kids, bevy of nurses… and me?"

"Are you askin' if it upsets me to be cheatin' on my wife, Hawk?" Trapper was befuddled; this was the second time Hawkeye had brought this up in the last twenty minutes—or something similar, anyway. Hawkeye had never cared before; why now?

"Maybe I am," Hawkeye said, sounding… unsure of himself? Hawkeye never let vulnerability out to play for long—mostly only when he was sleep-deprived or had been in OR long enough to get punchy, then beyond that, to maudlin. Or when he drank too much gin and passed the party stage and wound up in the self-pity stage.

"Nah, it doesn't," Trapper said. He wasn't upset, but forced some extra cheer for Hawkeye's sake, so it would be obvious. "I got my two girls back home, and here I got a bevy of nurses, like ya said. I love 'em all."

Hawkeye's head came up, almost like he was expecting Trapper to say more, but Trapper didn't know what. He shrugged, lay back against his pillow, and fumbled around the cot for his medical journal. After long moments, Trapper felt Hawkeye's regard—his hot stare—shift away.

But later that night, drifting off to sleep, Frank in a coma in the bed across from them—after the towering fury he'd been in when he saw his mother's picture frame—Trapper wondered just what Hawkeye had _really_ been asking.

Trapper was in love with no less than at least three women at a time, not including his wife—mostly because he wasn't still in love with her—but Hawkeye was the only man he'd ever desired, the only man he'd ever fucked. Trapper never felt guilty about the nurses; he didn't feel guilty about Hawkeye. He'd never been wired towards monogamy anyway, having only married Louise because he'd knocked her up. And while back in Boston there'd been less opportunity to cheat—though he'd had a few assignations at the hospital where he worked—he slept with his wife mostly in the hope of conceiving children.

He'd told Hawkeye the truth about that, at least. Though he wasn't certain that anything else he'd said had been an _un_ truth—though maybe Hawkeye saw it that way, and that's why he'd been so weird after their bout of sex—Trapper loved his daughters to distraction. He'd go home after this stupid war was over—this senseless, gratuitous war—and he'd sleep with his wife, but only to get her pregnant again.

And he'd never, ever think of Hawkeye.

END


End file.
